“I know it’s not your job, but I’d appreciate any information you could get,” I said. “I’m quite intrigued by the whole thing.”
“One thing I do know is that nobody likes the guy. He’s a real shady character,” said Selcuk. “We also know about his loansharking. A troublemaker if ever there was one. I’m sure we’ve got a fat folder on him. Doesn’t have many friends.”
“They say there’s no proof linking him to the murder.”
“That’s nonsense. If there wasn’t any evidence, they’d find some.”
I shivered. He was right. The police would surely have “found” some incriminating piece of evidence.
“Put your feelers out, if you would.”
“If it’ll help get you out of that depression, I’m happy to,” Selcuk promised.
“And,” I continued, “about that murdered fellow…”
“Will do. His family, his friends. I’ll gather what I can and have it sent to you.”
“Thank you; you’re a real friend.”
“An underappreciated real friend.”
We said good-bye and hung up.
I had time for one more phone call before Ponpon took over the house. I called Beyza. Though sleepy, she still answered all of my questions.
“I’m looking for some more information about that Volkan of yours,” I began.
“Actually, he’s a real piece of shit.”
“That’s not what you said yesterday.”
“Well, he was great in the sack. That much I’ll give him. But as a human being, he was worse than useless. The things he did! Not just to me… to everyone… See what I mean… But I… How can I put this: He had a tainted heart. Always up to some evil. Things that helped no one but himself… Actually, it wasn’t him who thought it all up, it was that brother-in-law of his. He was the real piece of shit.”
“Tell me a little about him. I’m intrigued,” I urged her.
“What more can I say,” Beyza snapped. “He’s a minibus driver, too. But a real asshole. You know the type, not a toilet or sewer he hasn’t jumped in. If you ask me, he’s a cesspool of a person himself! So he takes a good look at Volkan: young, handsome, full of airs. He pulls his strings, pushes his buttons, and gets him right where he wants him. Not that it was difficult. Volkan was devoted to his brother-in-law, saw him as a real father figure and all that crap. Seems he was raised by this brother- in-law, learned all about life from him and so on… You know, the classic story. Volkan kowtowed to his every whim. But the guy’s a real piece of shit… I did mention that, didn’t I?… A total sleazeball and greedy as all hell… He starts working on Volkan, softening him up, brainwashing him… ‘That one’s good for some cash, sleep with that one, too’… He’s the one who corrupted the boy. And I bet he’s responsible for what happened to him! It’s the brother-in-law they should have killed.”
“How can I find him?”
“What for! Haven’t you been listening to me? What good would it do?”
“I just might uncover something,” I said. “There’s something funny about the whole business, but I haven’t put my finger on it yet.”
“It’s clear as day. He wanted too much money, or threatened someone or something. It would be just like him. Someone wasn’t taking it and that was that…”
“I’d still like to talk to him.”
“You know best, sweetie, but don’t say I didn’t tell you. He’s not the talking type. I think he works the Bosphorus minibus routes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Completely slipped my mind. He’s a big guy with a mustache… an unshaven, badly dressed piece of shit. Zeki or Zekai or something was the name.”
“If he hasn’t cleaned up, he shouldn’t be much trouble to find,” I said, half joking.
“Cut the wisecracking,” snarled Beyza. “If you find him, let me know. I got a word or two of my own for him. The way he ruined poor Volkan… And be careful. He’s a real piece of shit.”
Ponpon emerged from the bathroom singing her lungs out.
Chapter 8
Finding Ziya Goktas, Volkan’s brother-in-law, was a piece of cake. When I phoned the association of minibus drivers they were more helpful than I’d expected. They didn’t know why I was calling, but clearly assumed from my questions that I was a reporter. The secretary did her best to be polite, addressing me as “sir” and answering my questions one by one, a real nightingale.
The association condemned the attacks on its drivers. This wasn’t the first one. In fact, as a form of protest and to enlighten the general public, they intended to turn out in force at the funeral. It was hoped that taxi drivers, too, would show up and swell their numbers.
The entire community was in mourning. They blamed the state for not providing security. If they weren’t safe, what difference did it make if they had insurance and health care? But they paid their taxes like everyone else. I was informed at length of the deep distress of the family, how brother Okan Sar?dogan and brother-in-law Ziya Goktas had the support and solidarity not only of the minibus drivers on the Sariyer line, but of all the drivers across Istanbul. So I was able to confirm what line the brother-in-law worked on, and learned that there was a brother: Okan. An interview with him could be helpful. The most useful tidbits often pop out of the least promising mouths.
I had just one problem to consider: In what guise should I pay a call? As a foxy lady journalist, or as a slightly camp correspondent? A short skirt surely would get me more information, but I would be a helpless sheep among a horny pack of wolves. I decided to go as a man.
I didn’t tell Ponpon what I was up to. She was liable to revert to her role of guardian angel and refuse to leave my side. I dressed and left, taking with me as accessories a huge old camera and my minirecorder.
The old minibus stop in Taksim was gone, and I had no idea where they’d moved it to. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to ask the association. It would be difficult to find in the hubbub of Bessiktas. I hailed the next cab, and the driver’s face lit up when I told him to take me to Sariyer. He even stopped slouching in anticipation of the fare. I seized the opportunity to tell him to switch off the harrowing music. I simply will not tolerate anguished songs drumming the message into my subconscious that life is full of pain and sorrow. Particularly when I’m just emerging from a deep depression.
I’d intended to use the long drive to the other end of the Bosphorus as an opportunity to do some serious thinking. But as we passed Maslak and traveled through forested land, I couldn’t help reflecting instead on how few and far between green spaces are in Istanbul today, and how people like me, who live in the heart of the city and rarely travel farther than a kilometer from their homes, seldom have the opportunity to see the few trees that are left.
The final stop was full of minibuses. They were parked in a long line, as they always are, except for rush hour. Everyone had heard about Volkan, and they all had different theories concerning his end. Most subscribed to the belief that he had been robbed. A few ventured the possibility of a jealous husband or boyfriend. None mentioned the fact that Volkan had been a gigolo. In fact, they pretended they weren’t even aware of it. After listening to a couple of the drivers I decided they spent too much time watching films on TV. One fact was obvious: a highflier like Faruk Hanoglu wouldn’t have been caught dead getting into a minibus.
They graciously supplied me with a glass of tea while they looked for Okan and Ziya. Neither could be found, but I was assured that if I waited, they’d come.
“Ziya is a total wreck,” confided the older one. “He loved that boy like a son.”
The virtues of Volkan were listed at length. Such a good heart, so multitalented and ready to help anyone in need; the story of his rise from a boyish fare collector to the owner of a minibus was repeated several times, either by a single voice or as a gruff chorus.
I sipped the awful tea. My stomach would be skinned from the inside if I drank it, but failure to do so would be a terrible discourtesy. I took tiny sips for the better part of half an hour. As various drivers headed for the road, others replaced them, each doing his bit to contribute to the legend springing up around Saint Volkan. But there was still no sign of the brother-in-law, Ziya, or the brother, Okan.
I was getting bored. If any of the girls were here they’d be astonished I could get sick of sitting amid so many hairy men. But bored I was. It must have been the waiting.
Finally, I thanked them and stood up. A man in his forties rose to accompany me. He clearly wished to have a private word. I thought I’d been fairly discreet, but someone had spotted what I was. Yes, that must be it. He threw a friendly arm around my shoulder and walked with me as far as the main road.
His name was Tuncer.
“Don’t let on that you heard it from me, but Okan, Volkan, and Ziya-the three of them-are all trouble. Don’t believe anything the others said. They think they’re showing solidarity. It wasn’t like that at all.”
Interesting.
“What do you mean?” I prompted.
“I’m heading home, to Kurtulus,” he said. “If you like, I can drop you off somewhere.”
“Thank you so much,” I accepted.
It was too good to be true.
Between deep drags on a cigarette, Tuncer talked the entire length of the trip. The brand he smoked and his choice of words pinned him as an old left-winger.
“Okan’s a substance abuser,” he began. “Totally useless.”
“An alcoholic?” I asked.
“At first he was, now he smokes hash. Actually, he takes whatever he can get his hands on. Then he runs out of money, of course. And he can’t work. Not all spaced-out. He had a couple of accidents, nothing serious. Realized he couldn’t go on. Couldn’t keep driving. He started leasing his minibus by the day. Started sitting in the coffeehouse all day, waiting to collect his cut. Once he got his money, he’d go and buy booze, hash, grass.”
“No one mentioned that.”
“They’d all clam up if you asked about it. That’s our way. All in the name of solidarity.”
“So why are you telling me?”
“So that someone knows the truth, knows the truth so they can write about it,” he said. “But like I said, I didn’t tell you.”
“I understand.”
